


Certain Types of Monsters

by Larkrane



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larkrane/pseuds/Larkrane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She never really believed she had escaped the Red Room anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Types of Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> While this will mostly be in line with the movies, some things will be taken from the comics (for example, Natasha being exposed to a variant of the super soldier serum.) 
> 
> The pairings are also still undecided.

At one time there was a small, orphaned girl in Russia, who believed in only a handful of truths. That she would be an assassin. That she would be the best. That she would survive. And above all else, that she would always be utterly and absolutely unable to change these circumstances. 

Eighty years later and the people in her life like to talk about it like it’s over. She lives in New York. She’s saved the world-- a handful of times. There’s a lot of redemption in her future, and she’s free to claim it. Sometimes she indulges in these fantasies, speaking of the past like it stayed there, speaking of the future like it were certain. 

But eighty years ago there were young, breakable bodies being flipped and slammed into the floor, and in the silence that follows a SHIELD agent hitting the mats she can still hear the echo of a faint “снова!” 

Again. 

And it was eighty years ago that there were twenty eight young girls pressing ice into each other’s bones and wrapping tape over swollen feet, swollen hands. And she sees them still, in the shadows of the locker room. 

Natasha Romanoff is an assassin. She is the best. She survives, every time. She is to this day, utterly and absolutely unable to escape the Red Room. 

|||||||||||||

It was too early and she was running on too little sleep, so the stench of Clint’s breakfast made her want to puke. All over his pancakes, all over his coffee, all over those god awful eggs. All over him, ‘cause he deserved it. 

“There’s still no change? None at all? It’s been weeks since you mentioned it, I thought you went back to normal.” 

She stared flatly somewhere between the concern in his eyes and his suspended fork. “I never mentioned it. You pulled it out of me like a tooth.” 

“Is that what it would take to get you to go to the med bay?” 

“The med bay isn’t equipped to deal with me.” 

“You don’t even wanna see if they could give you something?” 

“What the hell would it take to knock _me_ out? I might as well tase myself to sleep.” 

She had been kidding. Of course. But Clint looked back at her, eyebrows raised and nervous, realizing too late that it was sarcasm. Realizing too late that now she saw it as a viable option. 

“No, no.” 

She shrugged. 

“Nat, come on.” 

“I’m tired,” she said, all nonchalance, wondering how her widow’s bite might function as a nightlight jammed into her side. “…I’m tired,” she said, feeling the pressure of her nightmares just beneath her skull. 

“I’m worried about you, you know.” He said quietly, looking down at the food he felt like pushing aside. 

After all these years Natasha was still unfamiliar with the idea of concern directed her way. She said nothing. 

“Everyone else went back to normal,” he went on. Tony’s panic attacks were from New York, and…” he hesitated. “Bruce was about ready to go even before her little stunt.” They both glanced across the cafeteria to where the Scarlet Witch sat, smiling at a table with Rhodes and Sam, the three of them sore and sweaty from a new-recruits training session. 

“She’s the weakest one we’ve got,” Natasha said. “Poor cardio, clumsy.” She looked small where she sat. She looked like a civilian. 

“She did something to you, Nat. Everyone else shook it off.” 

“She must have tripped over my reprogramming while she was in there. I’m sure It’ll settle, eventually.” And with that she stood, Clint looking up at her pleadingly. 

“Natasha, you don’t sleep, you barely eat…” 

“Look who’s talking,” she said, glancing down to his plate as she passed. His breakfast had gone cold. The eggs smelled even worse like that. 

On her way out she had to pass the witch, aware of how her approach chased the girl’s smile away. Whenever she drew near, those timid eyes fell away toward the floor, that soft voice grew silent. 

_The weakest one we’ve got._ Natasha gave the boys a nod as she passed by behind Wanda. Could she really be the only one who ever noticed how hard the Sokovian pretended not to see her? 

||||||||||||| 

In her line of work, there was sex. With the fake faces and the fake lives came the use of her very real body. That small orphaned girl tried hard to cling to the belief that it didn’t matter, but from the very first time to the very last it took its toll. 

From the Red Room to the Avengers she had never once found love. She would look into the eyes of the men she had to give herself too, and would think, on occasion, maybe she was seeing love. If the act was good enough. If the lies were strong enough. 

That was the idea that sustained her through some years of her youth. Maybe it wouldn't have to hurt so much, if they thought they loved her. 

She learned, however, that the killers and thieves and the assorted monsters never really fell in love with the escort or the maid or the other assorted characters. 

Because they were monsters. They weren’t where she found them to find love. And neither was she. And they were all a great big mass of subhuman, monstrous aberrations together and she fit right in. 

But there was one. There was one bulletproof, fireproof, wrecking ball times a thousand, monster of a man who cleaned his reading glasses whenever things got just a little bit tense, and she liked to think that maybe she could be a monster like that instead. 

Sometimes when she looked into his eyes she thought she might have really managed to find it this time. It was gentler, and sincere. But how on earth was she ever supposed to know for sure? Her neurological efficiency had been advanced to the highest possible level, but she could not for the life of her understand how to recognize love. 

It turned out, when that good, kind monster had shut her out and vanished, she hadn’t found it after all. 

||||||||||||| 

“You’re distracted,” Steve panted, reaching for the towel in his corner of the ring. 

“That’s why I’m here, yes,” she replied, waiting motionless for the next round. 

“You wanna tell me why?” 

“Yeah that’s what the gloves are for.” She punched her hands together a few times, impatient. From where he stood, Steve breathed out a laugh. 

“Alright.” Always accommodating, he stepped back to her, and they began again. 4:32 AM. 

A series of jabs quicker and sharper than a regular human could throw them; Than a regular human could take them. 

She never wanted to be an assassin. 

She sent a hook straight into his ribs. He sent one back towards her head, but she ducked under and twisted behind him. 

She never wanted to be the best. 

Suddenly his hands were on her and she was flipped over his shoulder, landing hard in front of him. He was the only one surprised. 

снова. 

She got to her feet. “Again.” 

If she was honest with herself, she never even wanted to survive. 


End file.
